


mr. americana and the heartbreak prince

by respectfully_simping (Friendly_Neighborhood_Spiderman)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Does it count if it's fake friendship?, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prince GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, kind of, red white & royal blue - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:00:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29445195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friendly_Neighborhood_Spiderman/pseuds/respectfully_simping
Summary: Dream was the First Son of the United States. George was the Prince of Wales. Could it be any more obvious?After a royal wedding turned into an international relations disaster, political rivals Dream and George are forced to spend a weekend together and pretend to be best friends. Feelings will most definitely not be caught. At all.(Red, White & Royal Blue AU. Canon Divergent after the first few chapters because I wanted to add more pining scenes and I don't write smut)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Karl Jacobs & Sapnap, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Minx | JustAMinx (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory disclaimer: this is based off their own personas and in no way am i trying to invade the privacy of dream and george. if they ever say that they're uncomfortable with fic, obviously i'll take it down.
> 
> also, some lines of dialogue are lifted directly from rw&rb by casey mcquiston (which is so good by the way, y'all should check it out!!)

“You think you’ll see your archnemesis tonight?” A voice cut through Dream’s scattered thoughts of Keynesian economics and fiscal policy. He looked up from his macroeconomics textbook to see Sapnap lounging on the couch across from him, reading from some magazine from 2018. “A Fairytale Wedding!” was displayed in bold font on the cover.

“He’s not my -- _why_ are you reading an old _People_ magazine about Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s wedding?” Dream cut himself off, leaning forward to try and snatch the offending object out of his best friend’s hands.

Sapnap snatched it out of his reach and slapped his arm out of the way. “I’m preparing for the royal wedding! This is, like, once in a lifetime, dude. Our parents are going to be out of office by the time this ever happens again.”

They were on their way to a royal wedding, which was an event that _apparently_ the First Son of the United States was obligated to go to. For the record, Dream had been to Prince Harry’s wedding too, which wasn’t much to write home about. It was all press coverage and flaunting British wealth. No, really. Prince Harry’s was _forty-three million dollars_. Well, at least that couple was in love, which didn’t seem to be the case for this wedding, which was between Prince Henry and some lucky British noble.

This time, Dream’s mother, in a rare act of sympathy, got a hold of an invitation for Sapnap, too. It wasn’t much of a stretch, Sapnap being the Vice President’s son and not some nobody that would be showing up, but the gesture was still appreciated. So here they were, flying across the Atlantic in a private jet. The only good thing coming out of the trip was a nine-hour plane ride with his best friend, even if he had to spend all of it studying economics. Seriously, did Henry have to schedule a wedding right before finals week?

“It’s not going to be _that_ cool. It’s literally just a long boring ceremony and then some dancing.”

“A long boring ceremony and then a $75,000 cake,” Sapnap corrected. “$75,000! Isn’t that crazy? It’s going to _hit_ after a long night of drinking and dancing.”

“It’s going to taste like vanilla cake, dumbass,” Dream scoffed.

Sapnap threw an empty chip wrapper at him before clearly deciding to turn the conversation back around to making fun of him. “As I was asking before you _so rudely interrupted me_ , do you think you’ll see your archnemesis tonight?”

“Archnemesis implies that we’re on equal footing, when we’re clearly not. That’s like saying my archnemesis is a cockroach. No, Prince George -- Prince George is just a nuisance, at best.”

From day one, the tabloids decided to cast Prince George as Dream’s British counterpart. They were similar ages, and Dream was the closest thing America had to royalty. Usually, presidents tried to keep the first family completely out of sight of the media, especially if they were young. But Dream was marketable, cute, and since he wanted to become a politician, totally okay with the spotlight. America immediately fell for his awkward, young charm.

Dream honestly thought the comparison was unfair. His image was all charisma and genius smirking wit, thoughtful interviews and even political plays to further his mother’s campaign. George’s was placid smiles and gentle chivalry and generic charity appearances, a perfectly blank Prince Charming canvas. George’s role, Dream thought, was much easier to play. He didn’t have to worry about his ratings or some dumb mistake to ruin his mother’s chances of reelection. He could simply sit there and look pretty -- not that he _looked_ pretty, Dream thought.

Dream remembered the first time he saw the prince -- it was on the front of a dumb magazine cover not unlike the one Sapnap had in his hands, when Dream was 13, still living in Florida, and the prince was probably around 15. In what should have been the peak of his teenage awkward years, George looked strangely elegant, confident in the foreground of the picture with his royal siblings. Dream passed by it in Walmart, doubled back, looked at it again, and grabbed it. Shoplifting wasn’t the best way to further his mother’s political career, but it was just the one thing, he _swears_ . Anyway, he hid it in his room, weirdly embarrassed about it, but kept coming back to look at the picture. As the son of an up-and-coming Floridian Congresswoman, he wanted to know how to harness that energy, how to look like that and get people to love you when the press was constantly circling like vultures, waiting for a single mistake. He remembered looking up an interview with Prince George and seeing that outside of the still picture, he was the same, all awkward charm and shy smiles, and the people _adored_ it.

But then came the first time he met George -- the first cool, detached words George said to him -- and Dream knew he had it all wrong, that the pretty, flung-open boy from the picture wasn’t real. The real George is beautiful, distant, boring, and closed. This person the tabloids keep comparing him to, whom he compares _himself_ to, thinks he’s _better_ than Dream and everyone like him. Dream can’t believe he ever wanted to be anything like that.

“I don’t know, man,” Sapnap said, interrupting his thoughts. “Maybe you should just make out with him already.”

Dream threw back the chip wrapper with vengeance.

  
  


The stupid ceremony was as dull as expected, the only plus side being the flute of champagne Dream snagged that probably cost, like, a _thousand_ dollars. The newlyweds danced some sort of boring waltz for their first dance, and the bride looked so detached from the whole time Dream wondered if there had ever been a love match in the history of British royalty. Say what you will about the presidency, at least by the time he wants to marry he won’t have to worry about political plays and royal blood or whatever it was that got this couple to this point. He downed another champagne flute, trying not to think about it and wondering how many of these tiny things it would take to get drunk.

A lot, it turned out. At least they were all complimentary. Dream was accumulating an embarrassing amount of empty glasses at his table. Sapnap had left twenty minutes ago to dance with some pretty Dutch heiress, and Punz, the Secret Service agent that was supposed to be watching them, was on the other side of the table, pointedly looking at his phone. Probably suffering from the secondhand embarrassment that comes from having to watch a miserable-looking First Son down champagne instead of dancing with the other guests.

“You look absolutely miserable,” an infuriatingly British voice said from beside him. “Why’d you even come if you were just going to sit here and rob the royal family of all our champagne?”

Dream looked over and there he was, all annoyingly high cheekbones and perfectly tousled hair. “Oh, fuck off.”

“You’re drunk,” George said, patronizing. Dream _really_ wanted to punch the condescending look off his face.

“What can I say? The champagne was good,” Dream said, pointedly not making eye contact. He looked over at Punz, hoping for a way out of this conversation, but he was still on his phone, probably playing Candy Crush or something. “Tell me, what African country did you conquer and suck the funds out of for the money to pull off this wedding?”

George stood up. “Do you want to dance?”

Shocked, Dream looked up at him. The prince was standing above him, his annoyingly perfect eyebrows arched and a hand outstretched.

Taking his silence as an answer, George pushed, “Come on, you know the press will love it. And I want at least _one_ small story in the tabloids when it’ll all be full of the wedding.”

Dream glanced over at Punz, who gave him a meaningful look, probably bored of sitting in the same place all night and wanting him to actually _go somewhere_. He sighed and stood up, ignoring George’s hand, and followed him to the dance floor. They awkwardly stood on the edge of it as a more upbeat tune started playing. Dream could count it in threes, and assumed it was a waltz, but that was as far as his musical knowledge took him. He took classical music as an elective at Georgetown for a credit he needed his sophomore year, but none of it stuck.

“You’re so tense,” George said, still in his patronizing tone. Dream took pleasure in the fact that the prince had to look up at him to say it. It was the little victories. He tried to ignore the fact that he was aware of every spot where they were touching. His shoulder burned where George was holding onto it, leading him along with the music. He saw the flash of a camera at the corner of his eyes, and he reminded himself that it was all for the press. They would _love_ seeing America’s sweetheart actually interact with someone other than Sapnap, and maybe it would get the Sapnap/Dream dating conspiracies to take a rest (though the fanfiction was admittedly hilarious).

“Do you ever get tired,” Dream said, “of pretending you’re above all this?”

George actually looked caught off guard at this, and Dream bit back a small smile. Again, little victories. “Pardon?”

“I mean, you’re out here, getting the photographers to chase you, swanning around like you hate the attention, which you clearly don’t since you’re dancing with _me,_ of all people. You act like you’re too important to be anywhere. Doesn’t it get exhausting?”

“I’m...a bit more complicated than that,” George attempts, sounding flustered. During the small tangent, they had managed to get entirely offbeat of the music. His grip tightened on Dream’s shoulder and their feet stumbled as he seemed to try to regain control of the situation.

“I’m just saying, you can try to act like you’re having fun. Occasionally,” Dream said, purposefully slowing his feet down to get them offbeat again and forcing George to steer them out of the way of another dancing couple.

George laughed humorlessly. “I think perhaps you should consider switching to water, Clay.”

“Should I?” Dream pushed aside the thought that maybe the champagne is what gave him the nerve to start this conversation in the first place when he could’ve just danced in a stuffy silence and let the photographers get what they want. “Am I offending you? Sorry I’m not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know that must be confusing for you.”

“Do you know what? I think you are,” George said, his smile turning smug and a little mean. “Do you notice that I have only been exhaustively civil every time we’ve spoken? Yet you always want to _start_ something. I think you _are_ a little obsessed with me. Simply an observation.”

“What--” Dream sputtered. 

George raised an eyebrow and let go of him as the song ended. “Good day, Clay.”

And, wow, Dream _really_ hated that this stupid, stuck-up prince gets to have the last word with him, and, without thinking, he reached out and pulled George’s shoulders back.

And then George turned and pushed Dream off of him, and Dream was almost impressed that he’s actually getting to see a glimmer of personality from the prince, and then suddenly he was tripping over his own feet and stumbling backward into the table nearest to him. The table that, to his horror, is the one carrying the massive eight-tier wedding cake, and he grabbed George’s arm to save himself, but then they’re both tumbling into the $75,000 nightmare.

His first thought as he looked up at the ceiling, covered in cake with George beside him, was, wow, the prince actually looked pissed, and it was the first bit of emotion he’s ever seen from him.

His second thought that his mother was going to murder him in cold blood.

That was all he had time for before the flash from someone’s camera went off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!! it's ya girl back with another update!! i hope you enjoy :) I'm thinking consistent sunday updates maybe??

“You messed up. Like, wow. You _really_ messed up,” Minx was saying, pacing across the office.

“I know. God, I know,” Dream groaned. “Please, please, tell me you can fix it.”

Minx scoffed. “Of course I can _fucking_ fix it, what do you take me for?” She dropped a fat binder on the desk in front of him, and he pulled his head out from under his hands. “This won’t save you from your mom, who is _pissed_ , by the way, and for good reason. You fucked up big time, and less than a year before the reelection, too! But--” she dramatically flipped the binder open. “This could possibly help.”

Minx was one of his mother’s advisors, his unofficial babysitter, and had saved his ass more than once in situations very similar to this one. She always did it with a sour attitude and a few choice words for him, but he honestly had no idea what he’d do without her. Case in point, impending international doom.

Dream looked down at the page she had flipped to in the binder, helpfully labeled: “How to Repair International Relations so that You Don’t Get Kicked Out of the White House in a Year and Your Mother doesn’t become the First President since Nixon to have Less Than Eight Years: a Helpful Guide.”

“I think you got some of that capitalization wrong,” he muttered, his first thought, and the advisor smacked him on his head.

“Shut up and read it,” she snapped.

He saw the title of the next page, and his heart sank. “Noooo,” he whined, “Please don’t make me, Minx, I’m begging you, please.” The words “step 1: befriend prince george” was staring up at him from the binder, mocking him.

“Does it look like I give a damn? No,” she said sharply, cutting him off when he opens his mouth. “Listen to me, you little shit, for just one second. You are going to fly to England this weekend, and here’s what America is going to see: you, having the best weekend of your life with your best mate Prince George. I have so very helpfully scheduled, with the prince’s team, an appearance on a British talk show, and a public charity appearance, with photographers present, so act like you love each other. You will leave tomorrow. Any questions?”

“What about school?” Dream whined, mostly under his breath, the only valid argument he could think of.

“Pardon?”

“What about school, Minx, you know, college, my education?”

“You’ll be back Sunday night,” she said dismissively. “Anything else?”

Dream paused, considering. Reasons this wasn’t a one hundred percent terrible idea:

  1. His mother needed good press
  2. Having a shitty record on foreign relations definitely won’t help his career
  3. Free trip to Europe



“Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Like you ever fucking had a choice, you little gremlin.”

* * *

It was miserable when Dream arrived in London, the December wind biting through the fabric of his coat, adding to his sour mood. On the way, he had to sign pages upon pages of NDAs that Punz had to help him through, which he thought was utterly pointless. It wasn’t like George was going to tell anything about his personal life that he would need to keep secret, and if he did, the only person he would ever consider telling was Sapnap.

Dream shivered, pulling his coat tighter around himself, when someone tall with sunglasses who looked like he belonged in a James Bond movie approached them. “Welcome back to England,” he said, shaking Dream’s hand. “My name is Eret, Prince George’s equerry, and I’ll be escorting both of you during your appearances this weekend.”

Dream shook his hand as an attendant took his luggage and showed Punz and his Secret Service team where they’d be working. “Nice to meet you, Eret.”

Eret spun around and started towards the car waiting for them, moving fast enough that Dream had to awkwardly half-jog to catch up. “You’ll be staying in the guest quarters at Kensington Palace. Tomorrow you’ll do the _This Morning_ interview at nine, then you’ll visit a children’s cancer ward in the afternoon, and then you’re good to return to America.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” Dream said, still flustered from the rush. “And where is George?”

“We’re actually picking up Prince George from the stables right now,” Eret replied brightly. “A photographer will be there to photograph him welcoming you to the country, so do try and get along.”

The stables were, predictably, obnoxiously fancy, considering it was just a place to keep horses. Dream leaned against one of the fences to wait for George to finish with whatever princes do on horses. The longer the prince took to arrive, the longer Dream started to overthink. Was a button-up considered underdressed for a small photo-op with the prince of England? Surely not. Dream had been in several photo-ops before, but this felt different. At least, he assured himself, George would probably be sweaty and gross from working out.

George was not sweaty and gross. Because _of course_ he wasn’t. He rode around the bend, fashionably late, on a pristine white horse and bathed dramatically in the golden light of the sunset, wearing a crisp black jacket and riding pants tucked into tall leather boots, looking every inch an actual fairy-tale prince. Wow, Dream hated him.

“I am going to throw up on you,” Dream announced as he got off his horse and walked over to them, but it had to be accompanied by a bright smile as the photographer nearby started going to work. “You look especially disgusting today.”

“Hello, Clay,” George said, extending his hand for him to shake. “You look more sober than usual.”

“Only for you, Your Highness,” he replied mockingly, taking his hand.

“You are too kind,” George said through gritted teeth, standing far closer than he ever wanted to be.

“This is idiotic,” Dream said, trying to ignore the photographer standing a few feet away and watching their every move.

“I’d rather be waterboarded,” George agreed. “Your country could probably arrange that, couldn’t you?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Dream said with a loud, fake laugh.

“Hardly enough time, sadly,” George said, finally stepping back as Eret came back.

“Your Highness,” he greeted, “The photographer should have what he needs, so if you’re ready, the car is ready.”

George turned to him and smiled again, his eyes infuriatingly unreadable. “Shall we?”

* * *

For the record, George hated this just as much, if not more, than Clay did.

It was half-past one in the morning, and he was well aware of the fact that the stupid interview in the morning show was in, like, six hours, but he couldn’t sleep. Nerves about appearing on television (no matter how many times he did it, he never got used to it), the fact that Clay was _here_ , in the castle, and a million other loud thoughts crowded his head. 

So _forgive him_ for wanting a midnight snack.

The current problem: his personal stash of ice cream bars, his go-to insomnia snack, was gone. Poof. Vanished.

Which was how he found himself outside of the kitchen underneath where Clay was staying, which was fully stocked with everything the First Son would need for the grand total of 48 hours he was staying in England. He wouldn’t notice if one thing was missing, George reasoned, and that’s if he even makes his way to the kitchens once during his whole trip. He expected to be in and out and back in bed within the hour, his sweet tooth satisfied.

What he didn’t expect was to see the First Son of the United States sitting on the counter, phone in one hand and ice cream bar in the other. He had messy hair, glasses George had never seen before, and was wearing a form-fitting t-shirt and sweatpants. He looked more relaxed than George had ever seen him, none of the usual bravado or anger.

“Ummmm…” George was frozen in the doorway, his brain short-circuiting.

He saw the moment Clay recognized him and registered his presence. He straightened and a more guarded look shuttered across his face. “Hold up Sapnap, I’ll have to call you back,” he said into the phone.

“Ummm…” George gestured vaguely to the freezer. “Ice cream. I’m out. Figured they stocked you up.”

Clay didn’t answer, tilting his head a little as he looked George up and down. He felt as if he was being studied, or sized up, or...something. He wasn’t sure how it made him feel.

“So...can I…?” he gestured again towards the freezer.

“Yeah, go ahead,” Clay said finally, the first words he’d spoken to him.

George made his way over to the freezer. The silence was suffocating. “So...do you want to practice?” he asked, desperate to fill it. “For tomorrow, I mean. Talk about what we’re going to say?”

Clay bristled, infuriatingly on the defense as always. “I don’t need any practice,” he snapped. “I do this too, you know.”

 _Not for you, you idiot,_ George thought desperately, but he let out a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Of course you don’t. I had forgotten you could do no wrong.”

Clay mimicked his sigh with his usual air of competitiveness. “Here,” he said. He opened his phone, snapped a picture of the ice cream, and started typing on his phone. George stood awkwardly, feeling very out of place. Finally, Clay turned the phone around, showing the finished product. It was an Instagram post with the caption: “Ice cream with @princegeorge: the perfect cure for jetlag.” “See?” he said. “It’s easy. All of this. They’ll eat it up and then I can go home and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

“Okay,” George said, unsure of how else to respond.

“Okay,” Clay echoed. “Now, I was on the phone, so, if you don’t mind…”

“Right, uh...thank you...for letting me steal your ice cream, I mean. I’ll see you in the morning, Clay.”

“Please,” he said, sounding like he was in a rush to say it. “You can call me Dream. Everybody does.”

“Okay, Dream,” George said carefully, half-expecting it to be a big joke he was about to be made fun of for. “Goodnight.”

It took him a long time to go to sleep after that.

* * *

The morning talk show went fine, really -- George shouldn’t have been worried. Then he and Clay -- Dream? He really needed to ask about that nickname sometime when he wasn’t half asleep -- were shuttered to the next event, a public charity appearance at a children’s hospital. Dream, frustratingly, disappeared as soon as they arrived, desperate as always to get away from him, even though literally the whole point was to get pictures together. 

He didn’t see Dream again until about an hour into the event. He had found a young girl who was a Star Wars fan and was hanging out with her.

“I want to be just like Princess Leia when I’m older because she’s so tough and smart and strong, and she gets to kiss Han Solo,” the girl was saying, going red when she got to the last part.

“I think you’ve got the right idea there,” George agreed, and then it was his turn to blush, because no, he definitely didn’t just agree that Han Solo was hot, he was definitely just talking about the first part.

The little girl giggled. “Who’s your favorite?”

“I always liked Luke,” he replied after some thought. “He’s brave and good, and he’s the strongest Jedi of them all. I think Luke is proof that it doesn’t matter where you come from or who your family is -- you can always be great if you’re true to yourself.”

Then a nurse came in, and George almost jumped out of his skin when he saw Dream near the doorway, looking just as startled. How long had he been standing there?

“I’m impressed,” Dream said after the nurse kicked them out to give the little girl her medicine. George gave him a confused look. “Not impressed,” he corrected. “Just surprised.”

“At what?”

“That you actually have, you know, feelings.”

George opened his mouth to say, _Of course I have feelings, you absolute moron. Took you long enough,_ when three things happened in quick succession.

The first: a shout echoed from the opposite end of the hall.

The second: a loud pop that sounded alarmingly like gunfire.

The third: a Secret Service officer (George dimly remembered him introducing himself as Punz earlier) grabbed both George and Dream by the arms and shoved them through the nearest door.

“Stay down,” Punz grunted as he slammed the door behind them.

George felt Dream’s long legs hook under his, and they both went flying towards the floor, George stuck under Dream in a human pretzel. He felt an elbow jab into his ribs and tried to scoot out of the way, just to hit the wall. Of course they had to be shoved into a closet too small for even one of them to fit in.

“You know,” Dream said, his breath tickling George’s ear, “we have got to stop ending up like this.”

“Do you _mind?_ ”

“This is _your_ fault!”

“How is this _possibly_ my fault?” George hissed.

“Nobody ever tries to shoot me while I’m doing presidential appearances, but the minute I go out with a fucking royal--”

“Will you shut up before you get us both killed?”

“Nobody’s going to kill us. Punz is blocking the door. Besides, it’s probably nothing.”

“Bloody hell,” George muttered, shoving Dream in an attempt to give himself more room. They were less tangled, now, and Dream was more on the floor than on him, and there wasn’t an elbow shoved into his side anymore, but they were still way too close for comfort.

“Can you move over, Your Highness?” Dream whispered, shoving him back. “I’d rather not be the little spoon.”

“Believe me, I’m trying,” George snapped, face going red. He was grateful for the pitch darkness. “There’s no room.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Your heart’s beating so fast,” Dream whispered, breaking it.

“Well, for the record, nobody’s ever made an attempt on my life either,” George said, though he felt strangely detached from the whole gunshot situation and more hyper aware of the close contact, for some reason.

“Well, congratulations. You’ve officially made it.”

“Yes, this is exactly how I always dreamed it would be,” he snapped, “locked in a cupboard with your elbow inside my rib cage.”

Dream giggled, and it was almost endearing.

Another long stretch of silence.

“So,” Dream starts, and George braces himself to be antagonized. “Star Wars?”

“Yes, Dream. Believe it or not, I didn’t only spend my childhood going to tea parties.”

“I assumed it was mostly posture coaching and junior polo league.”

 _He’s not wrong,_ George thought, fighting back a smile. “That...may have been part of it.”

“So you’re into pop culture, but you act like you’re not,” Dream continued, and George stiffened. “Either you’re not allowed to talk about it because it’s unseemly for the crown, or you choose not to talk about it because you want people to think you’re cultured. Which one?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” George asked, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t think royal guests are allowed to do that.”

“I’m trying to understand why you’re so committed to acting like someone you’re not, considering you just told that little girl in there that greatest means being true to yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and if I did, I’m not sure that’s any of your concern,” George said, his voice strained at the edges.

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I’m legally bound to pretend to be your best friend, and I don’t know if you’ve thought this through yet, but that’s not going to start with this weekend,” Dream said. “If we do this and we’re never seen together again, people are gonna know we’re full of shit. We’re stuck with each other, like it or not, so I have a right to be clued in about what your deal is before it sneaks up on me and bites me in the ass.”

Honestly, George _hadn’t_ thought about that, which made him feel like an idiot. Of course it wasn’t ending with this weekend. He turned to look at Dream’s silhouette and decided to deflect. “Why don’t we start with you telling me why you hate me so much?”

“Do you really want to have that conversation?”

“Maybe I do.”

Dream shifted slightly, and George was once again reminded of their proximity when it jostled him. He realized he was holding his breath, and released it as Dream said “Do you really not remember being a prick to me at the Olympics?”

Honestly, he didn’t, and he felt like an ass because of it. It would’ve been Rio...was that really when they met? He remembered so many run-ins afterwards, their banter and Dream’s sharp words, but 2016 was a blur. “Is that the time you threatened to push me into the Thames?” he asked, deflecting again.

“It was the time you were a condescending prick at the diving finals. Do you really not remember?”

“Remind me,” George said, stomach sinking.

He felt Dream’s glare from a few inches away. “I walked up to you to introduce myself, and you stared at me like I was the most offensive thing you had ever seen. Right after you shook my hand, you turned to Eret and said, ‘Can you get rid of him?’”

Wow. Okay. If George could go back in time and strangle his 2016 self, he would. He cleared his throat. “Ah. I didn’t realize you’d heard that.”

“I feel like you’re missing the point,” Dream said, “which is that it’s a douchey thing to say either way.”

 _You’re so right._ “That’s...fair.”

“Yeah, so.”

“That’s all?” George asked. “Only the Olympics?”

“I mean, that was the start.”

“I’m sensing ellipses,” George pushed, because anything was easier than him talking and him apologizing for the terrible luck that they met in the darkest period of his life.

“It’s just…” Dream struggled with his words, and George studied his face. “I don’t know. Doing what we do is fucking hard. But it’s harder for me. I’m the son of the first female president. And you’re, you know, you, and you were born into all of this, and everyone thinks you’re Prince Charming. And you will _always_ be Prince Charming, no matter what you do. But, like, if I mess up, it’s over for me. I’ll just be a regular person this time next year.”

George paused. He’d never realized how _expressive_ Dream was. Even in the darkness, inches away, he could see the anxiety and vulnerability etched onto his face. Before, he had only ever seen anger, defensiveness. “Well,” he said carefully. “I can’t very well do much about the rest. But I can tell you that I was, in fact, a prick that day. Not that it’s any excuse, but my father had died not that long before that, and I was still kind of a prick every day of my life at that time. And…” he swallowed. “I _am_ sorry, Dream.”

The pause that followed was suffocating. George tore his eyes from the other boy to try to count tiles on the ceiling, which turned out to be fruitless. It was so dark that the lines all blurred together when he concentrated.

“Well,” Dream said, a small smile at the back of his voice, “nice to know you’re not perfect.”

George let out a huff of a laugh and then moved on, desperate to be finished with that line of conversation. “And to answer your question, I do like Star Wars, and my favorite is _Return of the Jedi_.”

“Wow, you are so wrong?”

“How can I be wrong?” he asked indignantly. “It’s a personal opinion!”

“You just are! _Empire_ is the best.”

“Of course _you_ like the darkest one in the series.”

“That’s what makes it _good_ ,” Dream said, which is so _like_ Dream that George feels something stirring inside. He immediately squashes it, because why would he think that? They aren’t friends. “It’s the most thematically complex, too. It’s got the Han and Leia kiss, it’s got Yoda, Han is the coolest in that one, we have fucking Lando Calirssian, and undoubtedly the best twist in cinematic history. What does _Jedi_ have? Fucking Ewoks.”

George bit back a laugh. “ _Shut up_. Ewoks are iconic.”

“Ewoks are stupid.”

“But Endor!”

“But Hoth! Come on, there’s a reason people always call the best, grittiest installment of a trilogy the _Empire_ of the series.”

“And I can appreciate that. But isn’t there something to be said about a happy ending as well?” he pointed out, and immediately regretted the cheesiness. Why was he saying this?

“Spoken like a true Prince Charming,” Dream teased.

“I’m only saying, I like the resolution of _Jedi_ . It ties everything up nicely. And the overall theme you’re intended to take away from the films is hope and love and…” George trailed off. God, he was talking way too much. “...and, er, all that. Which is what _Jedi_ leaves you with a sense of most of all.”

Before he could embarrass himself any further, the door opened. George almost, _almost_ , grabbed Dream’s arm on instinct before registering Punz’s silhouette in the door. “False alarm,” he said, looking like he had just run a marathon. “Some dumbass kids brought fireworks for their friend.” He looked down at them, looking amused. “That looks cozy.”

“Yeah, we’re really bonding,” Dream said, and George took the opportunity to elbow him one last time before they got to their feet.

* * *

When it was time for Dream to leave, he snatched George’s phone and typed something in before returning it. 

“Here,” he said. “That’s my number. If we’re going to keep this up, it’s going to get annoying to keep going through handlers. Just text me. We’ll figure it out.”

George blinked at him dumbly, trying to work up what to say and coming up with nothing. “Right,” he said finally. “Thank you.”

Dream gave him a weird look before turning around and going on the plane. “No booty calls!” he shouted over his shoulder, and George made sure he was out of sight before finally letting out a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed!! i stole the scenes from rw&rb mostly, but I'm thinking of going off script next chapter to make it more slow burn (because, you know, they kiss soon in the book). anyway, I hope you have a great day!!

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this, be sure to leave a comment or kudos! thanks for the support <3


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